


Pressure

by pink_shoes



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: I import everything I love into the G1 cartoon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-28 18:23:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8457049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_shoes/pseuds/pink_shoes
Summary: After multiple instances of insubordination, Deadlock finds himself reassigned from Turmoil's squad to Megatron's underwater base on Earth. There, he is assigned to guard an Autobot prisoner. A very talkative Autobot prisoner. G1 Cartoon/IDW fusion mess thing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is, or why I wrote this. I love this ship and I love the stupid G1 cartoon so I fused them together. 
> 
> Might be continued. Might not. IDK.

Deadlock had been transferred to the Victory only a deca-cycle ago, and was finding the experience to be…unique. 

Prior to coming to Earth, he’d been stationed on Dabola under Turmoil, and spent his solar cycles killing Autobots under an alien sun. But Turmoil had apparently had enough of him. _“You’re Megatron’s problem now,”_ his ex-commander had proclaimed by way of farewell. 

Deadlock knew—because his squadmates had told him—that everyone was expecting him to get slagged by Megatron half a cycle after arriving. Deadlock’s lack of respect for his commanding officers was matched only by his skill on the battlefield. But what none of them realized was that Megatron was different. Megatron was a leader that Deadlock could obey without question. He was the sort of leader that Turmoil could only be in his wildest recharge fluxes. 

And so, despite the fact that the energon tasted like sludge, and the fact that there was organic _stuff_ in his joints that never seemed to come out, no matter how long he spent in the washracks (which had no warm water, only cold), and the fact that they were under millions of tons of crushing water, Deadlock was darkly pleased with himself. He would prove Turmoil’s reports wrong, making the mech look like a fool, and win back Megatron’s favor. 

How he would accomplish this when he was stuck on guard duty remained to be seen. 

The brig of the Victory wasn’t very large, and it was easily the most miserable part of the ship. Resources for maintenance and repairs went to literally everywhere else first. As long as the electro-bars functioned, nobody really cared about the state of their prisoners’ accommodations. 

Or prisoner, in this case. 

The Autobot had been captured a few cycles ago, and still seemed to be processing exactly what had happened to him. He had been taken not from a battlefield, but from some sort of research institute run by the native organic species, where he had apparently been visiting. Deadlock wasn’t sure about the specifics.

The mech was tiny, and red, and had some sort of scientific frame that reminded Deadlock of the Golden Age, and not in a good way. This mech had once been an elite member of Cybertronian society, entitled to education and work and so much more. While Deadlock had been starving in the streets, this mech had probably been enjoying lavish parties and performing secret experiments for the Senate. 

Scientific frames were rare now, and usually kept locked away for their own safety. It was a testament to the Autobots’ stupidity that they’d let this one leave the Ark. 

The Autobot met Deadlock’s optics as though they were equals, rather than prisoner and jailor. He seemed unafraid as he walked as near to the bars as he could without risking a burn. 

“Hello,” said the Autobot pleasantly. “I don’t believe I know you.”

Deadlock felt his own energy field tense. He was all too familiar with chatty prisoners who would try to get him to lower his guard so that they could enact an escape plan. 

“You must have been assigned to Earth recently, then,” the Autobot went on, ignoring Deadlock’s silence. “What is your designation?”

Deadlock did not respond. The little Autobot was nothing if not persistent, though.

“My designation is Perceptor,” he said. “I am the Chief Science Officer on the Ark. What position do you hold?”

Chief Science Officer? This mech was important. No wonder they’d assigned someone to guard him. Deadlock wondered what Megatron would use him for. Would he be a powerful bargaining chip, or would Soundwave just hack his processors and emerge with fifty different superweapons?

“Well,” said Perceptor. “I hope you’ve had a chance to see Earth. Properly, I mean, not on a battlefield. Though I imagine it must be difficult to reach the mainland when one is not flight-capable. But if you ever find yourself with the opportunity to explore, I highly recommend the—”

Primus. Maybe the mech was trying to goad Deadlock into punching him so that he’d get in trouble with Megatron. The plan was so devious and unAutobot that Deadlock actually found himself with a grudging respect for the smaller mech. 

“—which are protected areas operated by the local government on this landmass. But they are open to visitors, and utilizing a holoform will allow you entry without arousing suspicion so long as your altmode is relatively unremarkable—and I believe I see wheels affixed to your frame, so you are in luck. Now, if memory serves, I believe that Crater Lake National Park is the closest in proximity to our current location. We are fortunate, however, that in this area, there are actually an irregularly high concentration of such—”

“Primus,” said Deadlock, who was at some bizarre midway point between awe and irritation. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Well, when one party refuses to utilize one’s vocalizer, it makes it difficult to engage in meaningful discourse,” Perceptor retorted. “But if you would like to contribute to this discussion, you are more than welcome to suggest alternate topics.”

Apparently Perceptor didn’t realize how lucky he was the electro-bars were between them.

“Or we could just sit here silently,” Deadlock grumbled. 

“Oh, but there is nothing to be gained by that,” Perceptor sounded oddly cheerful. “I should very much like to hear your perspective on this planet.”

“My perspective?” Deadlock was taken aback. “Why?” What sort of trick was this? Was Perceptor hoping to fool Deadlock into revealing something important? Or perhaps get him to say something unflattering about his superior officers? The mech was smart…perhaps dangerously so. Deadlock would have to be careful to stay out of whatever game Perceptor was trying to play.

“Well, I have so few opportunities for conversation with Decepticons,” said Perceptor. “I feel compelled to take advantage of the circumstances. Your point of view is radically different than mine, after all.”

“What does an Autobot care about what a Decepticon thinks?” Deadlock asked. “We’re all dumb brutes to you, aren’t we?”

“The Decepticon faction claims many noted scholars, tacticians, and scientists,” Perceptor replied reasonably. “And while perhaps some of your comrades prefer to use their fists rather than their processors, I am not so simple-minded to believe that you all behave as a monolith.”

Deadlock didn’t know how to respond to that. 

“Now, I don’t believe you have disclosed your designation,” Perceptor went on. “May I have it, or is that data classified?”

“Deadlock,” he said, though upon immediate reflection he was not sure why he answered with anything other than an order to shut the frag up. The little scientist smiled, and Deadlock felt an awkward, unpleasant burning sensation in his tanks that he could not explain.

“Deadlock,” repeated Perceptor. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. And how long have you been stationed on Earth?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I'm continuing this???

There seemed to be no limit to what Perceptor could talk about. He was in the middle of a description of the various systems of government used by the humans (some of which actually sounded like they might not be completely terrible ideas) when Deadlock got the comm from Megatron. 

At some point, Deadlock had moved to sit on the floor across from Perceptor. With only the electro-bars separating them, it felt like a normal conversation. Now, Deadlock rose to his pedes, shaking out the stiffness in his limbs. Perceptor fell silent and looked up at him. 

“Megatron wants to see you now,” Deadlock reported.

It was almost funny how rapidly Perceptor’s body language changed. In a klick, he went from bright and inquisitive to outright terrified. 

“What does he want?” asked Perceptor, withdrawing to the dubious comfort of the far wall. 

“Didn’t say,” Deadlock shrugged. He deactivated the elecro-bars and waited to see if Perceptor would come forward or if he’d have to be dragged. It didn’t matter either way to Deadlock, but Perceptor suddenly looked so fragile that he was afraid he might actually kill the mech if he grabbed him too hard. And then Deadlock would be in deep slag. 

Deadlock stepped forward, and Perceptor shrank away from him. Deadlock took him by the arm, and realized there was something odd attached to the scientist’s forearm. Round and white, it shifted strangely under Deadlock’s servo, like a small wheel. Deadlock did not know what to make of it, and merely adjusted his grip. 

Thankfully, Perceptor didn’t try to twist out of his grasp or even struggle. Instead, he seemed to be paralyzed—save for his energy field, which was now giving out sharp, needle-like bursts of terror. 

Deadlock was familiar with that. Dragging terrified Autobots from one location to another was nothing new. Nevertheless, Deadlock felt something akin to pity when he looked over at Perceptor. Usually the Autobots that Deadlock encountered were warriors, if not by frame then at least by choice. 

_Civilian spark. Science frame. Ruling class,_ Deadlock reminded himself. After a worryingly long moment, that familiar old hatred flared up in his spark. Perceptor did not deserve his pity. Perceptor deserved whatever Megatron was planning to do to him, and worse. 

“Come on,” Deadlock repeated, and began to drag Perceptor towards the door. 

“Please,” whispered Perceptor. “My companions will reward you—they’ll do anything to have me back safely. You don’t have to do this. Please.”

“I’m not a traitor,” Deadlock said flatly. 

Perceptor was trembling so violently that Deadlock thought he might actually be having a seizure, but he did not say another word. Standing beside Perceptor, Deadlock realized that they were actually about the same height. Perceptor was skinnier, lacking any real armor, but only a little bit shorter than Deadlock. But something about the way Perceptor held himself made himself seem so much smaller than he truly was—an impressive feat, considering the giant whatever-it-was on Perceptor’s shoulder.

They arrived before Megatron and Soundwave half a breem later. Megatron had called him not to one of the interrogation rooms, but to the medbay. Deadlock had a feeling he knew what they were planning. Perceptor was too fragile and valuable to risk in an interrogation. They would hack his processor directly. 

The medbay was still and quiet. It frequently housed the Constructicons, the closest thing the Earth-based Decepticons had to medics, but the team was just as often off-base, building bases or superweapons for their leader. This seemed to be the case today. 

“You may go, Deadlock,” said Megatron with a wave of his servo. To Deadlock’s horror, Perceptor grabbed him by the arm. Outraged, Deadlock ripped free and stalked towards the door—though he glanced back over in time to see Perceptor wrap both arms around himself and lower his gaze to the floor. 

Megatron was speaking, explaining something to Perceptor, but Deadlock wasn’t listening. He glanced down at his arm where Perceptor had grabbed it. It wasn’t damaged or even scuffed, but for some reason he could still feel the echo of Perceptor’s servo on him—

And that was when Deadlock collided with something solid. 

With a loud _clang_ , Deadlock fell to the floor. Megatron stopped speaking, and Deadlock lifted his helm in time to see a lithe, golden-opticked grounder frame standing before him where a moment ago there had been nothing but empty air. 

“Autobot!” hissed Deadlock, leaping back to his pedes and reaching for his gun. The Autobot punched him in the nasal ridge, sending Deadlock staggering back.

“Mirage!” cried Perceptor happily from somewhere behind him. Deadlock turned around in time to see three more Autobots appear out of thin air just behind Megatron and Soundwave.

“Behind you!” yelled Deadlock, but Megatron was only fixated on the Autobot in front of him. Soundwave was a little more attentive, however, and turned in time to receive a punch in the jaw from Jazz. 

Chaos erupted in the room as the medbay was transformed into a small battlefield. Perceptor darted through the warriors and saboteurs towards Mirage and the exit, but Deadlock reached out and caught him in a headlock. 

Perceptor hadn’t been built with combat in mind, and so Deadlock doubted he’d even need both arms to restrain the scientist. He held the mech close to his frame and tried to take in what exactly was going on. The Autobots had brought four mechs into the Victory—Jazz, who needed no introduction, the one Perceptor had identified as Mirage, a tiny yellow minibot, and a green ground-frame who knocked Laserbeak out of the air as she tried to flee, no doubt to sound the alarm. 

Deadlock was, therefore, completely unprepared when Perceptor elbowed him in the optic and bit down on Deadlock’s servo with all his strength.

By the time Deadlock’s vision returned, the Autobots were gone.

* * *

Any mech returning from the Victory alive and in one piece was always cause for celebration on the Ark. Perceptor didn’t much care for being the center of attention, but he knew it would be rude to sneak away from his own party, so he sat on one of the rec-room sofas and let everyone hug him.

In truth, Perceptor found it a little silly. He had not done anything praiseworthy. In fact, he had risked the lives of his fellow Autobots by forcing them to launch a dangerous rescue mission. He should be receiving a harsh lecture from Prowl, not a party. 

But long experience had taught him that most Autobots didn’t see it that way, and so Perceptor did not argue. 

Had it been his fault that he had been captured? Perhaps. He knew that, as a scientific frame, he ought to stay in the Ark at all times. He had no excuse—he lacked a grounder’s need for open roads, or an aerial’s passion for the sky, or even an aquatic’s romantic wanderlust. But Earth was so lovely, and full of fascinating things to see. When the humans invited him places, he could not bear to refuse them.

Perceptor also knew that he was extremely lucky. He had been rescued before they could even try to get any information out of him. He knew warriors who had not been so fortunate. Some had survived, some had not. Perceptor’s rank and rarity of frame meant that the Ark’s officers had launched an immediate rescue mission. If he had been a soldier, he probably would not have been such a high priority. Perceptor glanced around the room and wondered if any of the other Autobots resented him for that. 

“What are you thinking about?” asked Wheeljack, coming to settle beside him on the couch. Perceptor looked over at his friend and colleague. Wheeljack could have probably broken out of the Victory single-servoedly, using only the scraps of metal found in his holding cell to construct some manner of weapon or bomb.

“It is nothing,” said Perceptor. They both sat in silence for a moment, watching the other residents of the Ark dance and imbibe. 

“Well, if you need to talk—” Wheeljack began. Perceptor shook his helm. 

“Nothing happened, truly. They did not even have a chance to begin an interrogation. I sat in a cell for about a joor before the others brought me back.”

“The most unremarkable captivity in recorded history, eh?” Wheeljack’s headfins flashed in amusement. 

“Well…” Perceptor thought of the mech who had been assigned to watch him. “I did have a very nice conversation with my guard.”

Wheeljack laughed. “Yeah? Which one?”

“Actually, he’s new to Earth,” said Perceptor. “His name was Deadlock.”

Wheeljack shook his helm. “Never heard of him.”

“As I said, he has only arrived recently. He was a ground-frame, and so I recommended some national parks he might want to visit, if he has some time away from the Victory.”

Wheeljack’s energy field suddenly became difficult to read. “And what did he say?”

Perceptor’s shoulder slumped. “Not much,” he admitted. “I did most of the talking. He must have thought I was a bore.” Suddenly, belatedly, Perceptor was deeply embarrassed. Deadlock was probably telling all the other Decepticons that Perceptor was a tedious, socially-oblivious nuisance.

Wheeljack shook his helm. “You’re really something, Percy,” he said affectionately. 

“What do you mean?” asked Perceptor, who strongly disliked ambiguous statements. Wheeljack knew this, too, and so he clarified. 

“It’s not bad,” Wheeljack said. “Only…you have to realize he’s a Decepticon soldier. He’s not going to use his day off to go through a drive through Yellowstone, and if he does he’ll be scouting for energy sources to bring back to Megatron.”

Perceptor had not even considered that. He raised a servo to his mouth. “The Decepticons destroy any energy sources they encounter,” he said. “And I’ve foolishly given them a list of some of this planet’s most precious locations.”

“Hey,” said Wheeljack, resting a servo on Perceptor’s shoulder. “Calm down. You didn’t tell him anything he couldn’t get off the Internet. If—and that’s a big if—they go after one of the spots you named, we’ll be there to stop them.”

“You’ll be there,” said Perceptor. “I’m useless in a fight.”

“Hey, that’s not true!” Perceptor hadn’t known Jazz was listening, but now he dropped himself down into the seat on the other side of Perceptor. His frame was warm from the high-grade he consumed. “You gave that ’con a pretty crack in his optic today, from what I saw!” 

“He what?” Wheeljack’s headfins flashed brightly. “Percy, you never told us that part!”

“Oh,” mumbled Perceptor. “It…it was nothing.”

“Nothing!” Jazz sounded incredulous, and now the other Autobots were gathering around to hear the story. “Alright, so, here’s how it went down. Me ‘n Hound ‘n Bee were under a hologram in the medbay, waitin’ for Perceptor to be brought in. Mirage, now, Mirage had been…”

Perceptor stared down at his servos to escape the sensation of too many optics on him. In truth, his actions had been awkward and unpracticed mimicries of what he’d seen in basic-level training videos. 

He wondered if Deadlock was alright, or if he was being punished by Megatron for letting him escape. He hoped Deadlock had something to sterilize the wound to his servo, and enough energy in his systems for his self-repair to take care of his optical glass. 

Perceptor cradled his right servo in his left and tried not to imagine bite marks there.


End file.
